Beneath the Tree of Heaven

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Flood Tide

THE LAST THING HAD BEEN PACKED, the rooms checked one last time to make sure nothing had been overlooked. Now they were ready to go. Chen stood in the main bedroom, looking about him at the strange emptiness of it, remembering all that had happened there.

In some ways it all seemed like a dream. Finished with, it now began to lose its substance, fading into memory. All the joy, the suffering, he had experienced in these rooms—where were they now? He smiled wryly, surprised to find himself suddenly so morbid. A new life beckoned—the life he had planned ever since he’d first glimpsed the Plantations twelve years before—and here he was, musing on the past. Twelve years ... He frowned. Why had it taken him so long? Why had he let things drift so far? And yet pan of him understood. Life was never as simple as one planned. One’s feet were set on a course and it was hard to step from that path and take another. The T’ang’s service, his children, the troubles with Wang Ti, all had served to waylay him on the journey. “Chen . . . ?”

He turned. Wang Ti was in the doorway, watching him.

“I was thinking,” he answered her unspoken query. “Remembering.” She came across and stood by him, putting her arm about his waist, her head pressed against his shoulder. “Will you miss all this?” “I don’t know. There’s so much of us still here. We move our things, yet something remains of us, neh?” He paused, his rough, peasant’s face troubled. “I keep thinking, We raised our children here. . . .” “Yes . . .”He felt a tiny shiver pass through her, but when he looked she was smiling.

He laughed. “What was that for?”

“I was thinking of the best of it. The good times.” She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him on the nose. “You are a good man, Kao Chen. Not many men would have seen it through the way you did.” He looked back at her, his eyes taking in the sweet familiarity of her features. “I did what I had to. I had no choice.” “No ...” But he could see she was moved by the thought. For a moment he held her tightly to him, his eyes closed, savoring the warm pressure of her body against his own.

There’s no mystery, he thought. This is why. For this.

“Are the children ready?” he asked, nuzzling the top of her head.

“Marie’s sorted them out.”

“Ah. . .”

There was a knock at the outer door.

“That’ll be Gregor,” she said. “He said he’d try to come.”

Chen nodded, then released her, letting her go to answer it. This evening they would be there finally, on the Plantation at Kosaya Gora, the open sky above them, the soft earth beneath their feet, and all of this—this world of walls and levels—would be behind them. He smiled. Yes, I am looking forward to seeing sunlight and rain once more. He went out and greeted Karr, hugging him in a tight embrace. Kan-was irt full combat uniform. This evening he, too, would be gone, but to Africa. “Is it all done?” Karr asked, looking about him at the crates that were piled up in the hallway.

“Finally,” Chen said, and laughed. “And you? Do you know yet where they’re sending you?”

“To the Gold Coast,” Karr answered. “I’m told there’s been fierce fighting there.”

“Ah . . .” Chen answered, nodding, sobered by the thought. Karr had been appointed to command the first of the “People’s Armies,” as the media termed them. For the past month he had been drilling the raw recruits in the rudiments of soldiering, but from what he’d already told Chen they were still a good six months from being ready. “I don’t like it, Chen, but needs must, as they say.” He smiled. “My T’ang commands.”

“You should have come with us, Gregor. You and Marie and little May.” The big man smiled and shook his head. “No, Chen. There’s not room for two supervisors on one Plantation. And what else would I have done? Can you see me hoeing the earth?”

Chen laughed. “No. I guess you’re right. But I shall miss you, Gregor Karr. Come and visit us when the fightings over, neh? We’ll show you what you’re missing living this way.”

Karr grinned back at him, holding his upper arms. “I shall look forward to it.”

“And good luck, my oldest friend. Keep safe, neh?” Karr nodded, then looked past him to where his own wife stood beside Wang Ti in the kitchen doorway, cradling his child. “I shall,” he answered softly. “The gods know I have a reason to now.”

general rheinhardt stood to one side as the huge makeshift screen was lowered into place. Then, satisfied that the screen was properly positioned, the cameras functioning, he went and joined his officers at the side of the long table.

Nearby, facing Rheinhardt across the width of the table, stood Major Dehmel of City Africa’s Fifteenth Banner, his staff officers behind him. In the great hall below the platform on which they met, the remains of the Fifteenth Banner—some thirty-eight thousand men in all—were gathered, guarded by a double line of Rheinhardts troops in full combat gear. They sat there, waiting silently for their fate to be decided, their weapons taken from them, their morale low. For three weeks they had retreated southward, from Beni Suef to Asyut, fighting a desperate rearguard action, relinquishing stack after stack until, at last, they had been overwhelmed. More than four hundred thousand of their number had fallen or been taken captive. Now it was their turn to sue for peace.

As the great screen lit up, both sets of officers turned to it, bowing

low.

Seated upon the dragon throne the giant figure of Li Yuan, fifty ch’i tall and twenty broad, looked down on them.

General Rheinhardt. . .”he said solemnly. “Major Dehmel. . . Shall we begin?”

“Chieh Hsia...” Rheinhardt said, then, putting out a hand, indicated that Dehmel and his officers should sit.

The great table had been polished until it gleamed, its dark, wooden veneer clear save for two foolscap documents and a set of inks and brushes. One document was set before Rheinhardt as he sat; the other, a duplicate of the surrender terms, had been placed before the Major. “Before we commence our business here,” Rheinhardt said, sitting up stiff and straight as he addressed the men facing him, “let me say that I have nothing but respect for the men and officers of the Fifteenth Banner. You fought courageously against superior odds. There is no shame in what you do here today.”

He saw the nods of satisfaction at that and continued. “So ... let us begin.” He half turned, looking up at the screen. “Chieh Hsia? Do you wish to say anything before we sign?”

Li Yuan nodded, and as he did the camera focused in on his face, which expanded, filling the screen.

“Major Dehmel, Ch’un tzu . . . I wish only to endorse what General Rheinhardt said. I have seen how well your Banner conducted itself in the face of enormous and continuous pressure and in spite of quite horrifying losses and the most difficult circumstances. You have discharged your duty to your master well and paid fully the debt of loyalty you owed him. But now—now things have changed. The task of reunification and regeneration lies ahead of us, and I have need of such good and loyal men as you to help me in that task.”

The young T’ang paused, seeming to look out at each and every man there in the Hall. “In the circumstances I am willing to offer a commission to any officer of the Fifteenth Banner who wishes to serve me in the coming campaign. Likewise, should any ordinary serving member of the Banner wish to bear arms on my behalf, they shall have the opportunity to do so.” There was a murmur of surprise. Li Yuan let it settle. For a moment he simply looked down on them, his features stern yet compassionate, powerful and yet benevolent, and then he spoke again. “Those who have no stomach for the fight ahead will be interned for the duration of the campaign on half rations. Those who do and are prepared to swear the oath of allegiance to me here today will be given two weeks’ leave, will be placed on full rations immediately, and”—he paused significantly—“will have all unpaid back-pay met.” This time the noise from the floor was considerable. Slowly the T’ang’s face receded. Once again the screen showed him seated on his throne, a cold, slightly distant figure awaiting their answer. Rheinhardt looked at Dehmel across the table and saw how Li Yuan’s speech had affected him. The Major looked to either side of him, his eyes meeting those of his fellow officers; they nodded and then looked down, silently agreeing on something between them.

As Dehmel looked back at him, Rheinhardt found himself smiling at the man, pleased that, after a month of hard fighting, there was something good to come of it.

Dehmel leaned toward Rheinhardt. “Might I speak to my men, General?” “Of course ...” Rheinhardt stood, his officers getting to their feet as one.

Dehmel stood. Then, allowing one of his captains to pull back his chair, he stepped out from the .table and went to the front of the platform. “Men!” he said, addressing the seated mass, his voice, carried by the lapel mike he wore, echoing back and forth across the massive space. “You have heard the great T’ang. You have heard his most generous and unexpected offer. You have also heard what fate awaits you should you choose not to fight any longer.”

He paused, nodding, a faint smile on his lips. “Now. . . You are great fighters. You have proved that a thousand times, beyond any doubt. What I asked you to do you did, and more. . . .” Again he nodded, a fierce pride emanating from him now. “Why, Wu Song himself would have been proud to call each one of you his brother!”

There was laughter at that but also a strong murmur of approval. “So what do you say? Shall we accept the great T’ang’s generous offer? Or shall we skulk like beaten women and lick our wounds?” There were cries of “No!” at that. Men were now on their feet. “Well?” Dehmel said, puffing out his chest. “What is the feeling of the Fifteenth?”

It began slowly, only a few voices at first, but within seconds it had been taken up throughout the hall, the two words muffled at first by the sound of the Fifteenth getting to its feet, then emphasized thunderously as thousands of booted feet stamped in time with the chant. “Li Yuan! ... Li Yuan! ... Li Yuan! ... Li Yuan! . . .” Dehmel raised both hands. Slowly silence fell. He turned, looking up at the screen, then bowed his head. Behind him thirty-eight thousand men—the last of a once great army—did the same.

“Chieh Hsia...” Dehmel said, his voice trembling with emotion. “The Fifteenth is yours!”

li yuan stepped down from the dragon throne and gestured toward his Chancellor.

“Master Nan, tell my cousins the good news, then send Tolonen in. I need to speak to him.”

Nan Ho bowed. “Chieh Hsia ...”

Li Yuan watched him go, smiling, pleased that the day had gone so well, then walked across to the Great Map.

He was proud of the map. It was something that had occurred to him while sitting at his desk, poring over charts and musing upon the progress of the war. He hated sitting. He liked to walk while he thought. So why not build a huge map that he could walk upon? Nan Ho had acted on his suggestion at once, bringing in craftsman to design and make the thing, adding a few details of his own.

Nestled between the pillars at the far end of the audience chamber, it was a huge thing that was raised up a full man’s height above the stone floor. A steeply sloping ramp followed the contours of the map’s edge, allowing access to its surface. Spots lit it from above. He climbed the ramp and stood there, on its southern edge, looking across to the north, some twenty paces distant.

Africa ... it was so vast, you could pick Europe up and drop it whole into that great northern mass between Dakar in the west and Asmara in the east. He walked across until he stood above Asyut, his feet planted either side of where the Fifteenth had surrendered to him, then turned, looking about him, studying the map for what seemed like the thousandth time. The surface of the map was translucent, registering those immutable details of geography that Man had failed to alter. Beneath that was a second layer—semiopaque—that showed the City’s boundaries, the growing areas, and other details of social importance—seaports and spaceports, barracks and palaces. Beneath that—and this was Nan Ho’s touch—was a constantly updated data-stream, showing the placement of troops and supplies, commander details, and known movements of the enemy forces. Moreover, he had only to press the surface with his toe and the computer would provide him with the latest report from that area. It was a wonderfully helpful tool, and he had spent many nights here, consulting the map, getting clear in his mind what needed to be done before talking with his cousins. He looked about him. The City itself covered less than twenty-five percent of that great land mass. In some places, like the Gold Coast, North Africa, and the eastern seaboard, it hugged the coast, hemmed in by mountains or desert; in others—in ancient Egypt, the Congo, old Nigeria, and in the south—it formed vast blocks, linked by narrow corridors. Another thirty-eight percent constituted the growing areas, the great Plantations that had been Africa’s traditional strength. The rest, just over a third of the total—a higher percentage than for any other City bar Eastern Asia—was desert or mountain.

It was a great City. Or had been until just four weeks back. Now it was effectively six separate Cities.

His own forces controlled a broad corridor from the coast of the Mediterranean at Alexandria a thousand li south to Asyut on the Nile—an area constituting half the ancient land of Egypt and a large chunk of what had once been Libya. Added to that, he had opened a second front at Freetown, and his forces had liberated that strip of the City that hugged the coast from Dakar in the north to Tiassale in the east, two hundred li short of the regional capital of Abidjan. There his Fourth Banner were facing Wang Sau-leyan’s Twelfth in a confrontation that was becoming bloodier by the day.

He turned and walked back across. Tsu Ma’s forces were in the Congo, Wei Tseng-li’s on the Mozambique coast. Neither had met with great success. To hold a hostile City was, they had discovered, much easier in theory than it was in practice. It was like playing wei chi in three dimensions. Unless you physically destroyed those areas you had passed through and herded the inhabitants on, the likelihood was that, as soon as you were ten stacks on, the citizens would rise up behind your lines. You could place garrisons, of course, and both Tsu Ma and Wei Tseng-li had taken to doing this, but the cost in additional manpower was enormous and simply added to the already horrendous problems of logistics. Regular drops onto the roof of the City were not enough, and food and munitions were constantly being depleted to an almost critical point. One bad defeat for either force and they would have to pull out altogether. The problem was made worse by the fact that, in the south, large parts of the City had already rebelled and thrown off Wang’s rule. Two new kingdoms had set themselves up, and though their kings seemed short-lived and their ragged armies posed no direct threat to the Alliance, their example was pernicious. City Africa, seized by the turmoil of the war, had decided it had finished with the rule of Seven, and revolutionary pressures, long suppressed under Wang, had now risen to the surface. Nor was that the only problem. As when North America had fallen, refugees from the African Above had poured into the other cities. But whereas before there had been room enough—just—to cope with the sudden influx, now the position was untenable. Many of those who had fled had been forced to put up with what they considered inferior accommodation, ten, even fifteen levels down. Unrest, something unheard of in the top twenty levels of his City, had spawned some ugly incidents, and he had been forced to intercede to calm things down. Right now things were peaceful, but how long would that last?

The great doors at the far end of the chamber swung open and Tolonen stepped through. The old man looked across, then bowed his head. “You wanted me, Chieh Hsia?”

“Yes, Knut. Join me here. I need to talk.” As Tolonen climbed up onto the map and began to walk across its surface toward his T’ang, Li Yuan saw how his eyes scanned the surface, taking in details.

“You have heard about the Fifteenth Banner?” Tolonen grinned. “It is most excellent news, Chieh Hsia. And with Karr’s new force to aid the Fourth at Abidjan, we ought to be hearing good news on that front, too, neh?”

Perhaps, he thought, keeping his doubts to himself. But that was not why he had asked Tolonen here. He went across and stood once more above Asyut, then turned, looking directly at the old Marshal. “Where is he, Knut? Where is the bastard?” Tolonen shrugged. “Dead, Chieh Hsia? It’s at least a week since he’s been seen in public. So maybe . . .”

But Li Yuan was shaking his head. “If he was dead we would know about it.

No, he’s alive. The fact that his armies still fight on is proof of that.

They would not do so if he were dead.”

It was the truth, surprisingly enough. At first he had been shocked by how fiercely Wang’s Banners had fought for him. But slowly an understanding of it had come to him. It was not Wang himself they fought for, but for his incarnation as T’ang of City Africa. Such loyalty was deeply ingrained. Without it they would have had no purpose, no real existence as a force, and so they fought—for Africa and their T’ang. He paced slowly about the map, moving from one of Wang’s palaces to the next—Alexandria, Casablanca, Ibadan, Kinshasa, Kimberley, Lusaka ... he had hit them all. Only Luxor remained. But word was that Luxor had been abandoned.

“If we could find him,” he mused, loud enough for Tolonen to hear, “if we could track him down and kill him . . . well, maybe we could end this slaughter.”

He looked up, facing Tolonen, almost eye to eye with him.

“Luxor,” Tolonen said. “You must hit Luxor next.”

“And if he’s not there?”

“Then we fight on, Chieh Hsia. No one said it would be easy. Such a war as this ... it could last years.”

Li Yuan nodded. That was exactly what he feared. Long years of warfare—what would that do to Chung Kuo? And if, at the end of it Africa were lost, what then for Europe and the other continents? Would it all go into the darkness?

“Luxor, then,” he said. “And let us pray this time we find him.”

the hall was echoing silent. Wang Sau-leyan sat on the high throne looking down on the eight prisoners, his bloodshot eyes burning with hatred. Beside him the woman looked away, fear—or was it revulsion?—in her eyes.

The prisoners were kneeling, their heads lowered, more from exhaustion

than deference, their hands bound tightly behind their backs—so tightly,

in fact, that blood seeped between the cords, darkening them. At their

backs a line of imperial guards waited, swords drawn, behind their

Captain.

At a gesture from the T’ang the screen behind him lit up, showing the

prisoners seated about a dining table, their silks, which now were filthy,

brightly clean, their faces, which now were bruised and bloodied,

laughing.

Wang leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping the arms of his throne tightly.

“Do you still deny it? After all you’ve seen? After all I’ve shown you?” He gestured toward the screen without looking. “Are those eight other men up there, laughing and talking of my death . . . plotting to kill me?” He sat back, wiping the spittle from his lips. “You treacherous scum! I treat you like my brothers and this is how you pay me back! This.’” He shuddered, an expression of pure disgust crossing his face. His arm shot out, pointing at one of the prisoners. “Captain, slit that fucker’s throat!”

Several of them looked up. One, finding himself facing Wang’s outstretched hand, gave a wail of terror. “No, Chieh Hsia . . . you misunderstand—“ The Captain grabbed him brutally, locked his head beneath his left arm, then dragged the blade of his knife across his throat. Blood gushed instantly. He let him fall.

“And that one!” Wang snarled savagely, pointing at another.

Dutifully, the Captain complied.

The other six were trembling now. There was the smell of feces in the air. “You miserable little men . . .” Wang snorted, then stood unsteadily, tottering down three steps before he got his balance. “You . . . ordure.” He came down the remaining steps and, taking the bloodied knife from his Captain, went and stood over one of the remaining six. “Plead. . . .” he said softly, leaning in toward the man. “Plead for your miserable life.”

The man threw himself down, prostrating himself at Wang’s feet. “Ch-chieh Hs-hsia,” he stammered. “The gods know—“ He grunted, Wang’s full weight suddenly on him, forcing the knife down into his back. Wang straightened up. The knife was embedded to the hilt. “And you?” he asked, turning to another.

The man fainted.

“Boil them,” he said, dismissing the guards, then wiped his hands on his silks. “Set up a cauldron and boil them all alive. And do it somewhere close. I want to hear their screams.”

He turned, looking up at his wife, seeing how she stared down at her hands, her flesh so pale, it was almost translucent. She had not been well these past few days. She was off her food and he had heard her being sick in the night. Nerves, he thought, mounting the steps toward her. “It’s okay,” he said softly, leaning over her. “I’d never hurt you. You know that. Never.”

Then, turning, addressing the backs of his guards as they dragged the prisoners away, he yelled. “Where’s Hung Mien-lo? Where’s that bastard Hung?”

hung mien-lo scampered down the walkway, then strapped himself in again. And not a moment too soon as the tiny, four-man craft lurched to the right, making the course change he had specified. He looked out, watching the roof of the City come up fast at him, then level out as the craft banked, heading out over the sea. He turned, looking out through the porthole opposite, seeing the great white wall of the City recede slowly, dwindling, dwindling as the craft accelerated. Hung sat back, feeling the pull of the craft against his body, then closed his eyes, relaxing, knowing, for the first time in over four weeks, that he was safe.

Behind him Africa grew smaller by the moment, like a bad dream fading in the dawn’s light. Ahead lay the ruined plains of the Middle East, and beyond them Central Asia and his destination. He took a long breath, sighing almost, then laughed, wondering what his once-Master would be doing now. Tending his wife, no doubt, he thought, and felt a dark tide of satisfaction wash through him. It had been impossible to poison Wang himself. A dozen tasters had died in various attempts over the years. But his wife . . . Again Hung laughed, his laughter rolling on and on as if it would never stop. It had been easy. Had he spoon-fed her the stuff pure it could not have been easier. A day he gave her, if that. And Wang himself? Hung Mien-lo heaved a huge sigh, purged by the laughter. Wang Sau-leyan’s days were numbered. He had known that from the start: from that moment in Wang’s rooms when—in a moment of blinding insight—he had understood that Wang Sau-leyan had murdered his own father. Even so, he had lasted well. A lot longer than he, Hung, had expected. But now the game was up. His Ministers had fled and now his Generals argued openly with him. In a day or two it would be over.

He turned to the window again. Out there, under the bluest of skies, the sea glimmered like a mirror to the horizon. Perfect, he thought, recalling for some reason the blue of the woman’s eyes. And even as he did he heard the click of the trigger mechanism, the slow whirring of the gears beneath his seat as the bomb’s detonator turned a half circle and engaged.

the men were dropping from the craft before it settled, scuttling across the roof of the great Palace toward the ventilation shafts. They had expected defensive fire coming in, but the Palace batteries had been silent, the lookout posts unmanned. Even so, they took positions as rehearsed, going through routines drilled into them a hundred times. There were the dull concussions of grenades and then they were inside, dropping swiftly, silently, down the shafts and out into the upper corridor. At the top of the great stairway the team leader stopped, sniffing the air, then raised a hand, bidding his men be still. There was a strange smell in the air, like the smell of overcooked meat. He listened. Nothing. The place seemed deserted. Then, from way down in the bowels of the palace, they heard a distant groan.

They descended, more slowly now, checking each room, each intersection, before they went on. Down, four flights and then a fifth, until they came to the Great Hall itself and, beyond it, the throne room. There, in the entrance to the Hall, beneath the faded wedding banners, they found the cauldrons—five of them in a line, the charred remnants of a fire about the base of each. Inside, their popeyed inhabitants were flushed a perfect pink, like crabs, the flesh bloated and grotesquely mottled. The surface of the cauldrons was still warm, the water—what was left of it—tepid.

The team leader nodded to himself, then waved his men on. Beyond the throne room were the T’ang’s offices and above them. . . He stopped, hearing the groaning come again, closer now and louder. The great doors to the throne room were partly closed, the view within obscured.

There! he mouthed, signaling to one of his men. At once the man crossed the hall, disappearing behind one of the pillars and reappearing farther down.

“Stay where you are!” a voice called out from inside the throne room. He saw his man freeze, then begin to back away. A single shot rang out. He heard his man fall, his gun clatter away from him. He looked back. The doors were beginning to close. “Now!” he yelled, urging his men forward. Then, taking a grenade from his belt, he ran, hurling it toward the ever-narrowing gap. The explosion threw him back.

Climbing to his feet he charged again, firing into the smoking ruins of the doors, his men close by, the sound of their guns making his ears ring loudly.

Inside the throne room, just beyond the shattered doors, six bodies lay still, as if asleep, their clothes disheveled. Coughing, he scrambled over the debris, looking about him. The throne was vacant, the room itself empty save for the corpses.

He turned, issuing orders. “Stewart, Blofeld, secure the stairway to the T’ang’s quarters. Edsel, Graham, check the anteroom.” His breath hissed from him. If Wang were here, he was upstairs, in his private rooms. In fact, he was certain of it now. These men—he bent over them, examining their uniforms, making sure—were Lan Tian, members of Wang Sau-leyan’s elite “Blue Sky” Division, the same that had launched the attack on Tongjiang. They would not have defended the door unless there were a reason for it.

The groaning came again, much louder than before—a ragged, awful sound that tore at one’s innards. A death sound. Upstairs. It came from upstairs.

He picked his way through the wreckage, then walked across to the throne, his gun cradled against his chest. At the foot of the steps he stopped, looking down at the three corpses that lay there, the blood congealed in a single, sticky pool about them. This was Wang’s work, he had no doubt of it. His face wrinkled with disgust, he turned, beckoning his men across to him, then looked toward the door of the anteroom. “Clear,” Edsel said.

“Good.” He waited as they gathered about him, then addressed them quietly. “You know what we have to do. Li Yuan wants his cousin taken alive. He wants him tried for what he did at Tongjiang.” There were grave nods at that, then, at his wave of dismissal, they moved across, taking positions beside the door that led through to Wang’s rooms. He sent four men through to check out the offices. They were clear. Then, with a whispered prayer to Kuan Ti, the God of War, he began to climb the steps, his gun out before him.

wang sau-leyan sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the woman. Her eyes were closed, the lids almost transparent now. Sweat beaded her naked skull, the yellowing flesh stretched tight and flecked with tiny pustules. He watched her, seeing how she writhed in her torment, fascinated by her suffering, and when she groaned again something in him responded to the sound, urging it from her.

Death. This was what death was like. He could feel it. He could actually feel it.

He reached across, taking the silver-handled gun from the bedside table, then stood. He could hear them outside. Could hear their whispering and their quiet tread. In a moment they would be here. Come, he thought, unafraid now that it was upon him. Death, do your worst. I, for one, am not beholden to you. I will not cower at your door. I am a Tang—a Son of Heaven!

He laughed, wondering, even as he did, what they made of his laughter. Did they think him mad? Well ... let them. What did it matter what the hsiao jen thought? It was not their fate to have their deaths recorded. He stood before the mirror, studying himself a moment, then turned, hearing the faintest buzzing in the air. At first he couldn’t make it out, then he saw it: a remote, the tiny floating camera hugging the tiled ceiling of the room.

It slowed, then stopped, no more than ten ch’i from where he stood, its tiny camera eye focused on him.

He smiled, a knowing smile, then returned to the bed, sitting on the end, the gun cradled in his lap.

The first man entered slowly, cautiously, and took up a kneeling position to the left of the door, beside a standing vase. The second was more nervous. He ducked into the room and scurried to his position to the right. From there the two men covered Wang with their automatics. He watched them, expressionless—saw how they tried to watch him without meeting his eyes—and smiled inwardly. Whatever their orders, when it came to killing a T’ang it went against their deepest instincts. He stretched his neck, then turned, hearing the woman stir. Her teeth were clenched, almost in a rictus, yet she was still alive. Her breath hissed from her momentarily in tiny gasps, then she relaxed again. Not long, he thought, and turned as the Captain came into the room.

“Chieh Hsia...”

Wang Sau-leyan stared at the man a moment, then, with an effort to be regal, hauled himself up off the bed and stood. “You are not welcome here, Captain. These are my private rooms.” The man’s head lowered the slightest degree. He took two paces toward Wang Sau-leyan. “I—“ Wang raised the gun, pointing it at him.

The Captain swallowed. “Put the gun down, Chieh Hsia. We are not here to hurt you. My orders are—“ Wang pulled the trigger.

There was a huge bang and then a moments shocked silence. The two men by the door were staring at Wang, astonished, yet still they did not fire. The Captain lay where he had fallen, groaning, clutching his ruined stomach, blood pooling beneath him on the polished tiles. Wang Sau-leyan looked up into the eye of the remote and smiled. “Well, cousin Yuan? Is that what you wanted?”

He looked back at the two men by the door, moving the gun between them.

“You? ... Or you?”

He lowered the gun, considering a moment, then, making a show of aiming it again, pointed it at the second guard. “You, I think.” “Husband ...”

The voice was like a whisper from the other side. Wang turned, looking at the woman. She was sitting up, and her eyes, which bulged from the diseased flesh, stared at him as if from Hell itself. Husband . . .

The explosion rocked him. It was as if he had been jabbed with a red-hot poker. He looked down, seeing at once where the bullet had entered him. Even as he stared the redness spread, and with it a searing pain that was like ice scorching through his veins. The gun fell from his hand. Slowly he sank to his knees.

He turned his head, looking, trying to understand just what had happened. The two guards seemed frozen. Their guns were lowered, their faces shocked. Between them, looking back at him from where he lay, the Captain held a gun. As he watched the faintest trace of smoke lifted from the barrel.

“Ah...” he said, smiling through the encroaching blackness. “Ah. . .” “Chieh Hsia,” the man answered him, letting his face fall back into the sticky mess that surrounded him. “Chieh Hsia ...”

EPILOGUE I WINTER 2213